


Northmen: The Saga Continues

by serennog



Category: Northmen: A Viking Saga (2014)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-02
Updated: 2019-02-04
Packaged: 2019-10-21 03:22:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17635088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/serennog/pseuds/serennog
Summary: Having escaped Scotland, Asbjorn's company continue south to Danelagh with Inghean's dangerously ambitious cousin close on their heels... AU in which Thorald survives.





	1. Prologue

As the boat that carried his cousin, Inghean, to safety became little more than a speck in the distance, Cináed turned his horse about with a growl and galloped up to his uncle’s side. The look of resignation on Dunchaid’s face only made him angrier.

 

“You do not mean to let them get away?”

 

The King gave him a brief warning look before sighing. “I cannot afford any more casualties.”

 

“When Murdill catches wind of this, he will take it as a personal insult,” spat Cináed. “If he cannot have his bride, then no-one can.”

 

Dunchaid’s eyes narrowed, the only indication that he knew Cináed’s true concern. The threat of a Viking bastard; an heir. Finally, he nodded. “Do what you must.”


	2. Chapter One

Inghean smoothed a hand over Thorald’s hair as he muttered nonsense, delirious from the pain of his wounds. With no provisions to hand, she could offer him nothing more than words of comfort and a tender caress; let him think she was his mother, or lover, or a goddess. Whatever would bring him peace.

 

Feeling eyes on her she looked up, meeting Asbjorn’s concerned gaze.

 

“How far before we can… steer to shore?” asked the helmsman between oar strokes.

 

Conall glanced over his shoulder, eyes narrowed against the wind and sea-spray. “In some three miles we will reach the mouth of the river Thuaidh. There is a settlement some way inland, ruled over by a man named Ord. We will be safe there for a time.”

 

“There will be a healer?” asked Asbjorn.

 

“A skilled one,” answered Conall, settling back into the rhythm of rowing. “By the name of Druian.”

 

Inghean startled when Thorald began coughing with such force that his head strained from her lap. She shushed him soothingly, reaching for the only water skin they had left, and carefully dribbled the last of its contents into the archer’s mouth.

 

“We row harder,” said Jorund determinedly. He gritted his teeth at the next stroke and the others took after him, Gunnar snarling as the muscles in his neck strained.

 

Thorald’s coughs subsided, replaced by the low murmur of words that, on leaning closer, Inghean could just about decipher.

 

“…Storm rageth fierce, hoist the sail… merry the storm-king appears…”

 

‘ _Let him live_ ,’ prayed Inghean silently to a God she was no longer certain existed. ‘ _Please, let him live_ …’

 

* * *

 

The settlement was larger and busier than Conall remembered it. A town, really, dominated by a hall whose roof could be seen from the river. Ord’s home, no doubt.

 

The river bank was a hive of activity. Fishermen and merchants went about unloading their boats, women kneaded their washing against flatstones on the water’s edge, while children played in the shallows. Very few noticed their arrival, and those who did merely watched with a combination of curiosity and wariness, but no malice. The townspeople themselves were of mixed descent – Briton, Roman, and Saxon – and were used to traders from both north and south. The sight of two native islanders and three Vikings was hardly unusual.

 

“We’ll dock over there,” said Conall, pointing with an aching, blistered hand. While Jorund tethered their boat to a levee, Conall went to Asbjorn’s side.

 

“We will go first to Druian.” He cast the deathly-pale Thorald a dubious look. “Can he be moved? I can fetch-”

 

“I will carry him,” said Gunnar. The tall, burly Viking stepped closer, boat swaying dangerously under his weight.

 

“Gently,” warned Inghean. Her hands hovered anxiously near Thorald’s head when Gunnar lifted him, but there was little cause for concern. Between them, Gunnar and Jorund got their friend onto the levee with a level of care one would not expect from battle-hardened men.

 

Watching Asbjorn help Inghean to her feet, Conall addressed the latter. “You will need to be careful here, as a young, unmarried woman.” He glanced thoughtfully at Asbjorn before returning his attention to the princess. “Perhaps it would be best if you were believed to be Asbjorn’s wife.”

 

She frowned, indignant, despite the flush of embarrassment that bloomed in her cheeks. “I can take care of myself.”

 

“As you’ve proven,” agreed Conall. “But I’d rather we provoke as little attention as possible during our stay here. Your being unattached and unchaperoned, travelling with men who are not your relations will give people… the wrong idea.”

 

Inghean blanched as she took his meaning.

 

“The monk has a point,” said Asbjorn. “Try to stay close.”

 

Conall hid a smile at the helmsman’s choice of words; a suggestion rather than an order. He was quickly learning how best to subjugate the headstrong Scotswoman. Yet Conall doubted the princess would stray, regardless. Whether she was aware of it or not, she seemed to gravitate towards Asbjorn with growing frequency, and he to her also. Because of this, Conall was certain the tale of their relationship was unlikely to be refuted.

 

“Let us find this healer,” came Jorund’s impatient voice suddenly from above them. “Before Thorald bleeds to death.”

 

* * *

 

“Enter,” said Druian in response to a knock on his hut’s door. It was likely the blacksmith’s wife, come to fetch more burn salve for her son who was learning the trade. But on looking up from the task of binding herbs, he found a familiar yet completely unexpected figure crossing the threshold.

 

“Conall.” Wiping the sap from his hands with an old rag, Druian went to meet the monk with a smile that quickly dropped when a tall man entered behind him, carrying the seemingly lifeless body of another. More strangers followed. A young woman and two other men.

 

“Come,” said Druian after only a brief hesitation. He gestured to a cot pushed up against one wall. “Lay him down there. What happened?” The last was directed at Conall. The monk’s face was grimmer than usual as he answered.

 

“Wolves – King Dunchaid’s mercenaries.” At Druian’s arched brows, he shook his head. “It is a long story. Can you help my friend?”

 

Druian lifted the man’s tunic. His wound had been bound with a red rag, torn from the woman’s dress, and stained dark with his blood. Druian deftly untied the make-shift bandage, carefully peeling the fabric away. Blood poured sluggishly from the deep gash in his side, and the skin at its edges was pinkish and raw – an early sign of infection.

 

“You, girl,” said Druian. “Fetch some water from the cauldron. There’s an empty bowl on that table there.”

 

While she silently went about following his instruction, Druian crossed to a shelf, selecting a jar and his pouch of implements. Laying them on a side table next to the cot, he cast Conall a shrewd look.

 

“What trouble have you got yourself into this time?”

 

The monk’s lips twitched in the ghost of a smile.

 

“It is trouble that has found me. Vikings if you hadn’t already guessed.” He went about introducing his companions, finishing with Inghean: Asbjorn’s woman. She’d returned with the boiled water, face flushed prettily from something other than the steam.

 

“Well,” said Druian, fetching a clean cloth to dampen. “There is little use for all of you here. I expect, Conall, you wish to meet with Ord.” He lowered the cloth to Thorald’s wound and gently began wiping away the blood. If Conall nodded, he did not see it.

 

“Ord should be warned of the danger that shadows us. Asbjorn, Inghean. Come with me.”

 

When the large man – Gunnar – made to protest, Druian spoke sternly. “I will need someone to hold Thorald down while I stitch his wound. As for you…” He glanced at the sour-faced Jorund. “Fetch me a candle. I will need more light…”


	3. Chapter Two

“You have been here before.” Asbjorn knew he was stating the obvious, but the healer’s remark about ‘trouble’ had piqued his curiosity.

 

“Some years ago,” answered Conall. “The monks at Lindisfarne had suffered from seemingly endless raids. In their desperation, they sought me out to teach them how to protect themselves, and when they were attacked during my stay, we were victorious. Or at least, I had thought we were.”

 

“How do you mean?” asked Inghean, giving voice to Asbjorn’s own question.

 

“There was a survivor.” The monk held out an arm, gesturing for Asbjorn and Inghean to halt as a townswoman carelessly emptied the contents of a slop bucket into their path. “He followed me here as I made my journey back north, intent on revenge.”

 

Asbjorn guessed that, since Conall himself was alive and well, the other man had been killed. Indeed, the monk’s dark expression served to confirm his theory.

 

“The raiders you speak of,” said Inghean as they began walking again. “They were…” She cast Asbjorn an apologetic glance. “Vikings?”

 

“Indeed.” Black humour apparently passed, Conall’s eyes sparkled with mischief as he looked briefly at the helmsman over his shoulder. “Consider yourself fortunate that you did not wash ashore on Lindisfarne after all. I taught my brothers well.”

 

Asbjorn smirked. “Worse than the Wolves? Surely not!”

 

He and Inghean followed the monk into a courtyard – full to brimming with market stalls – that stood at the foot of a grand timber hall.

 

“Ord’s Hall,” said Conall, having noticed Asbjorn’s awed look. “It seems he has done very well for himself since I was last here.”

 

They traversed the bustling marketplace, Asbjorn keeping a watchful eye on Inghean the entire time. The Scotswoman was looking about her in wonder. When she slowed her pace to view the fabrics at a weaver’s stall, Asbjorn gently grasped her arm.

 

“We will have time enough to admire the wares later.” He smiled to soften his words, and was inwardly relieved when Inghean nodded and allowed him to pull her away. Conall was waiting for them at the base of a stone stairway that led up to the hall.

 

“Be careful of what you say,” said the monk warningly. “We cannot afford a single misstep, as we are entirely at Ord’s mercy.”

 

Coming from any other man, Asbjorn might have bristled. But he gave Conall a curt nod of understanding.

 

“Good. Shall we?” That said, Conall lead the way up the steps.

 

* * *

 

“Conall!” Ord burst into the hall with a disbelieving laugh. “I was sure Ulric was mistaken.” He gestured the page who had fetched him from his chambers.

 

“Ord.” Conall inclined his head in greeting, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “You look well.” Indeed, with the exception of the grey that streaked his hair and beard, Ord had changed very little since their last encounter. Conall only barely suppressed a wince as the other man clapped him merrily on the shoulder, tender still from his run-in with the Wolves.

 

“Such flattery! Now, my friend. What brings you to my town? Not more trouble, I hope.” Conall didn’t miss the narrowing of Ord’s eyes as they alighted on his companions.

 

“It is a long story,” said the monk, repeating his earlier words to Druian. “But first, allow me to introduce Asbjorn, and his wife, Inghean. There are three others in our company, one of them badly wounded and presently in Druian’s care.”

 

“Sounds a sorry business,” said Ord sympathetically. “Come. I will hear this ‘long story’ of yours in the comfort of my solar. Ulric – run to the cellar and fetch us a flagon of wine, there’s a good lad.”

 

“And how is Gede?” asked Conall as Ulric dutifully filled their goblets once they were all settled – Ord and Connall on a fur-draped chair each, Asbjorn and Inghean on a nearby bench.

 

Ord’s face broke into a bright smile at the mention of his son. “Very well. He is in Cille Bhoisil, visiting his betrothed. Brigid has gone with him to keep a watchful eye on them, though I’m sure they will slip away more than once, as young lovers do.” Ord cast Asbjorn and Inghean a mischievous look which, Conall was amused to note, rendered both helmsman and princess distinctly uncomfortable. The monk took pity on them by changing the subject.

 

“Gede must have seen a good sixteen name days by now.”

 

“Seventeen,” answered Ord proudly. In the next instant, his face had darkened. “And to think how close we came to losing him…”

 

Conall smothered a wince. The memory of that fateful day wormed its way to the forefront of his mind – a young Gede, his blue eyes wide with terror, held captive in the arms of the Viking, a blade glinting at his throat. Conall remembered his own words as though they were spoken only yesterday.

 

“ _Are you such a coward that you would shield yourself behind an innocent child?_ ”

 

Conall startled as a hand clasped his shoulder.

 

“I don’t blame you for what happened,” said Ord, face grave. “It might have come to pass, regardless. You saved my son – that is what matters.”

 

The monk smiled tightly.

 

Then, glancing about the room to ensure that Ulric was gone, he relayed the tale of his current plight…

 

* * *

 

“What now?” growled Jorund, watching as Druian stepped back from Thorald’s recumbent form with an air of finality. The healer reached for a dampened cloth and proceeded to wipe the blood from his hands. _Thorald’s blood_. Jorund swallowed back bile and his growing anxiety.

 

“Now we wait,” said Druian calmly. “Your friend’s fever has yet to break. Pray for him, if you wish.”

 

Raw-nerved with worry and helplessness, Jorund took a menacing step forward only to be halted by Gunnar’s bear’s-paw of a hand on his shoulder.

 

“We will pray,” said the burly Viking. His grip tightened briefly; a warning. Jorund grunted in response, the fight leaving him. The blame for Thorald’s state lay not with the healer, after all, but with those whoresons who called themselves ‘Wolves’.

 

Shrugging off Gunnar’s hand, he went to Thorald’s cotside and kneeled beside it.

 

“Your journey to Valhalla will be a treacherous one without your runes, my friend,” whispered Jorund hoarsely into the archer’s ear. He reached up, gripping the pendant hanging from his own neck. “And I will not give you mine, for you will live, you hear me? You must live, or so help me, I will kill you myself.”

 

* * *

 

Cináed sat at his son’s cotside, committing the image of the raven-haired little boy to memory – for God only knew when he would see Crínán again, if at all…

 

“You leave at first light?”

 

Cináed turned to find Étaín standing nearby. Her steel-grey eyes glowed amber in the firelight, gaze steady and intense. Any other wife would have made their resignation and sadness known. But not Étaín. And that was why he loved her so – a fierce wife for a fierce warrior.

 

Cináed nodded curtly. “The sooner the better. If not for the matter of provisions, I would already have reached the Wall.”

 

“You said one of their party was gravely injured.” Étaín moved towards him with the grace of a cat. “The sentimental fools will be slowed. You will catch up to them, I have no doubt of that, and when you do…” She gripped his chin in a slender yet capable hand and leaned down until there was barely a hair’s breadth between them. “You will do what needs to be done. For Crínán.”

 

Étaín then kissed him hard, and Cináed returned it; a promise he would not break for anything.


	4. Chapter Three

“Your chamber,” said Ulric, holding the door open for Inghean and Asbjorn.

 

The former crossed the threshold into the room that was usually reserved for visiting officials, trying not to let her trepidation show as her eyes alighted on the large bed. Big enough for two. Inghean quickly diverted her gaze, settling on the roaring fire and, near it, a settle on which sat two neatly-folded piles of clothes; clean and intact, unlike the garments she and Asbjorn were currently wearing.

 

“Is there anything I can fetch you?” asked Ulric. “More food? Wine?”

 

“No, thank you,” answered Asbjorn as he entered the chamber. They had eaten well in Ord’s company a short while ago, and had drunk enough to loosen their bowstring-tight nerves without lapsing into drunkenness. “But please do thank your master again for his hospitality. His kindness is greatly appreciated.”

 

Ulric bowed and left, shutting the door after himself.

 

For a long moment, neither Inghean nor Asbjorn spoke a word. Feeling the soothing effects of two cups of wine dissipate like mist in sunshine, the Scotswoman began wringing her hands with discomfort. As the silence dragged on, she opened her mouth to speak (to say what, she wasn’t entirely sure), but was beaten to it by the Viking.

 

“I will leave you in peace, to see how Thorald fares.”

 

Inghean’s stomach lurched with relief and, strangely, something else. Disappointment? She swiftly quashed the thought.

 

“Perhaps you had better change first.” It was only then that she realised what changing would entail. Face flooding with warmth, Inghean quickly continued. “I will not look, of course.”

 

“Of course.” She didn’t miss the twitch at the corners of Asbjorn’s mouth nor the glint in his eyes. However his amusement, though subtle, was enough to rile her. Crossing to the settle, she picked up the bundle of men’s clothes and shoved them against the burly Viking’s chest before turning away.

 

“Do you… do you think Thorald will be alright?” asked Inghean a little while later.

 

The jangle of belt buckles and rustle of leather briefly stopped before resuming. “Thorald is strong,” said Asbjorn at last. “And if the gods had meant for him to die, he would already be dead.”

 

Inghean hoped that was true. “And the Wolves. What remains of them. Do you think they will follow?”

 

“They have proven themselves to be… _determined_ … where you’re concerned.” There was an edge to Asbjorn’s voice that made Inghean’s stomach twist with guilt. If it wasn’t for her, perhaps most of Asbjorn’s men would still be alive. “We won’t be truly safe until we reach Danelagh.”

 

“And… how do you propose to gain passage?” asked Inghean hesitantly. If Asbjorn still planned to hand her over to Dunchaid’s enemies for a monetary reward, then he would hardly admit it. But perhaps she would hear something in his voice. An inflection of regret…

 

Inghean startled when Asbjorn laid a hand on her arm, gently turning her to face him. The ragged undertunic he’d yet to remove clung to his well-defined torso like a second skin, the fabric stiffened from sweat, dirt, and dried saltwater. She snapped up her eyes to meet his own but found no indication that he’d noticed her brief appraisal. Indeed, his face showed nothing but sincerity.

 

“There are other ways of making money,” said Asbjorn softly before his mouth tugged into a smirk. “Jorund’s quite skilled with the die.” He released her and, without so much as a word of warning, tugged the soiled undertunic over his head. Inghean pivoted to stare determinedly at a wall, but not before catching a glimpse of the Viking’s self-satisfied expression.

 

So he _had_ noticed. With her back to him, he couldn’t see her smile.

 

* * *

 

Effe laid in her bed, staring at the rafters and the dancing shadows they created in the firelight, and thought of the woman in the red dress.

 

It was a fine dress, she’d noticed as the woman had fleetingly pored over her wares at the market that afternoon. The weave tight and practically faultless, the colour deep and rich and beyond Effe’s mother’s own dyeing skills.

 

Her mother…

 

Effe turned over, the ache of loss nearly taking her breath away. It had been months since her mother and sisters had passed, yet it might as well have been yesterday. There was no getting used to the silence; the absence of their chatter and laughter while they worked – dyeing, spinning, weaving. And most of all, there was no getting used to her father’s grief- and drink-fuelled anger.

 

He’d always had a temper on him, but Effe’s mother had been a balm, cooling his choler before it could overtake him.

 

Effe herself lacked that ability. But perhaps it was something more. Perhaps when he looked at her, he saw all that he had lost…

 

She had learned to avoid the beatings. In the days, she stayed out of his way, and in the evenings, she slept in the loft with the ladder laid out beside her so that she was unreachable. Yet his harsh words sometimes struck harder than physical blows.

 

As though in response to her thoughts, Effe heard the door open and slam shut.

 

“Effe!” Her father’s voice was thick. He’d been deep in his cups again. “Effe! Effe, you little bitch! Get down here!”

 

Effe feigned sleep. He would wear himself out eventually. He usually did.

 

“Effe! Do you hear me, you worthless sop?”

 

_You call me worthless yet it is_ I _who puts bread on the table_ , thought Effe bitterly. _It is_ my _hard-earned coin that you spend at the tavern. My fingers ache more and more from work meant for multiple pairs of hands, and still you take from me, and give nothing in return._

 

She knew better than to speak those grievances aloud. They would only fall on deaf ears.

 

Moments later, Effe heard her father settle and soon afterwards came the telltale rumble of his snores. She turned onto her back once more, gazing unseeingly at the rough-cut rafters while her mind wandered to an imaginary place far away, where everything was better.

 

* * *

 

As Asbjorn pressed a dampened cloth to Thorald’s fevered forehead, he leaned too heavily on his left arm and failed to suppress a wince. And he might have got away with it, had Gunnar not had only half an eye on the task of sharpening one of his daggers.

 

“Did you not have your wife see to that wound of yours?” asked the large Viking innocently enough. However, Asbjorn had known Gunnar since he was a child – considered him an honorary uncle – and could easily detect a hint of teasing in the older man’s voice. It was something that Jorund, sitting across from Gunnar, had also noticed if his quiet snickers were any indication.

 

“I did not want to worry her,” answered Asbjorn, levelling both men with a warning look. “Especially as she seemed to have forgotten all about it.” He’d hidden his discomfort well in Inghean’s presence, or at the very least had distracted her enough that she failed to notice. He smiled to himself on recalling the many blushes that had crept up the pale column of her throat and suffused her cheeks before he’d finished getting dressed and left the Scotswoman to her own devices.

 

“Let me see this wound of yours,” said Druian, stepping away from the table where he’d been busily filling jars with a foul-smelling salve. He scowled on noticing Asbjorn’s hesitation. “Now you know as well as I do that even the smallest cut can prove catastrophic if left untreated. Off with that tunic of yours, young Asbjorn.”

 

Biting back a sigh of resignation, Asbjorn did as told, glaring at Gunnar and Jorund’s failed attempts to smother their amusement.

 

“What a tale to tell Thorald when he comes to,” said Jorund with uncharacteristic merriment. “Our helmsman reduced to a chastised stripling!”


End file.
